


It's not the Wanting (but the Having)

by LadyMerlin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fred Weasley Lives, Happy Ending, Hints of Kinky Sex, M/M, Mentions of Threesomes/Moresomes, Mirror of Erised, Mutual Pining, References to Canon, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what anyone says, it’s not wrong. What's between them is not wrong.</p><p>Fred and George to each other are sure things in the best possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not the Wanting (but the Having)

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck My Life, the last Harry Potter fanfic I wrote was in 2009 and it was still on FFNet. I've been through like, twenty fandoms since then, and I've still never written proper incest (that I remember). Fingers crossed, eh?
> 
>  **Warning** : This fic contains sibling-incest. If this is not your cup of tea, please do not proceed further. Also, this fic hasn't been beta'd and was written in the throes of sleep-deprivation, so caveat. 
> 
> _Hooyah_ , here we go everybody better buckle up it’s gonna be a bumpy (heh) ride (to hell).

It’s not wrong.

No matter what anyone says, it’s not wrong.

What Fred and George are to each other is the most natural thing in the world, and he never understood why people looked wary when he hugged his brother, or when his brother kissed his cheek. He always asked, _why not?_

It’s _not_ wrong.

They have shared a bedroom since the day they were born, and unlike Bill and Charlie and Percy and Ron, who were _dying_ for their own space by the time they hit fifteen, Fred and George have never wanted space between them; from each other. They’ve always been-

 _FredandGeorge_.

It’s as simple as that. Fred and George, George and Fred, Gred and Forge.

There’s such a wonderful rhythm to it. He’s never alone. No one ever asks for _Just_ Fred.

They did everything together. They discovered everything together. They learned how to walk to get to each other. They learned how to talk to each other. When the world was bustling and far too busy for them, they found comfort in each other, curled into each other like sleeping puppies in a basket.

Ron would have felt stifled, he knows. Ron, who wants to stand out from the crowd, who wants to be his own man, more than anything in the world.

Fred is one half of a greater whole, and he wouldn’t exchange it for all the gold and recognition in the _world_.

They’d discovered the Mirror of Erised years before Harry had, in his first year at Hogwarts. They’d stood in front of it, in the great empty stone room, still young in their mischief making, and they’d seen the exact same thing.

Even though they hadn’t understood what they were seeing.

_Soft, bare skin and lush mouths and sharp teeth,_

_trembling fingers and quiet whimpers, and so much ginger hair. Holding, and cradling, and_

_arching backs and so much trust and_

wanting—

They could have had _years_. But they hadn’t understood, then, what they know now.

They’d been too young to understand.

Too young, on that first night, when they stood in front of the Mirror, blushing and quiet and _ashamed_ , and still holding hands.

They hadn’t understood for years, not while they both dated and kissed and fucked other people, men, women, everyone in between, trying to understand why they couldn’t find a single person to complete their sentences. Why no one (else) _understood_.

When George went on a date with a sweet ginger-haired boy, Lee had teased him, saying that most people went for partners who resembled their mothers.

George had shrugged it off, but Fred had lain in bed that night alone, silently fuming, waiting for George to return.

(George hadn’t returned that night).

Fred fumed because _he_ understood. George wasn’t looking for his mother.

George was looking for _him._

And when Friday night began creeping into Saturday morning, and George still hadn’t returned, Fred had taken his pillow and his blanket, and gone to the Mirror of Erised, and sat there watching his hearts’ desire play out before his eyes.

Watching, as mirror!Fred and mirror!George wound closer and closer and closer into each other like twin stars collapsing, until they were one single mirror!FredandGeorge, and they were _inside_ each other, breathless and gasping and still _wanting_.

He’d sat there and touched himself, ashamed but no less desperate for it, cheeks flushing hot and red, wondering what it would feel like to be able to reach out to the next bed and to _have_.

It had been years since George had so sweetly kissed his cheek.

Because it wasn’t wrong, but no one understood.

Later when Harry told the story of his first year, he told them what Dumbledore had said, about the Mirror driving men mad with visions which could never come true. Fred’s mind had always been tangled in the cross between going mad and always having _been_ mad, because he knew what people said about them, and he _still_ wanted what he’d always wanted. He didn’t let the warning bother him overmuch.

No one took the rumours seriously, anyway, and they were mostly just jokes. About how, if they wanked each other off, it’d be just like wanking, and not actually sex.

Fred had cast every single muffling charm he knew that night, around his bed. He’d stripped his clothes off, and pretended that he was George. He’d pretended he was George and imagined that Fred was touching him and kissing him and sucking him, and he’d come harder than he ever had in his entire life, with his own name on his lips.

George had gone on a couple more dates with the short ginger lad, and he seemed happy, but try as he might, Fred couldn’t help but hate him. Hate that he was touching George, who belonged to _Fred_ , by _birth-right_.

He’d gone back to the Mirror again and again and again, spending night after night watching himself and George live the life he wanted to live. Watched them get a small house together, out in the countryside where they could live. Watched them open the joke shop together, pretending to be business partners and brothers when they were so much _more_. Watched them grow old together, and still loving, still wanting.

And he should have known that he wouldn’t be able to keep it secret for that long. Not from his other half, of all people. And he should have known better than to go to the Mirror when his brother was in the room, instead of out on a date with the stubby ginger wonder.

But he made a mistake and went anyway, because he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Couldn’t erase the memory of George kissing him, even though it wasn’t a real memory. Couldn’t _not_ go. He _couldn’t_.

And as he did in all things in their life, George followed.

Not that Fred realised that until it was too late, of course. Not until George found him, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, gazing into the mirror with a look of desperate wanting, and a pillow clutched to his chest, as though he was trying to plug a hole in his own body.

And for long, foolish minutes, Fred’s short life flashed before his eyes. He thought of everything George could say, everything his mother could say, everything that could ever be said by _anyone_ in the world, and he knew he was _sick_ for wanting something everyone said he shouldn’t, and he was _sick_ for lusting and aching and desiring but he had never meant – he had never thought –

George looked _devastated_ , and it would have been enough to kill him, if he hadn’t spoken then in a mirror of Fred’s own thoughts, as if he’d picked them straight out of his brother’s mind.

“We could have had _years_ , brother,” he whispered, and it was like a bell pealing in his head and there were echoes ringing and seconds drained while Fred processed…

And then they were on each other, like the distance between them had just melted into nothing, and they were kissing like they’d _die_ if they parted, and it was so easy, so _easy_.

There was no awkward fumbling. They already knew each other’s mouths. There was no hesitation, because they knew each other’s minds. There was nothing between them but the wanting and the thin fabric of second-hand school robes.

Neither of them were prepared for it, and experience was a shrill voice in the back of their heads, warning them of the effect of cold stone floors on bare backs. They were not ready for anything; there was no slick, no bed, no _time_ , no air in the room – they couldn’t _breathe_.

And they could have been a bit classier, of course. Bit of wining and dining and a little covert wooing. But Fred and George to each other were sure things in the best possible way, and there was no room for hesitation between them. Their robes were blessedly easy to undo, and their pyjamas were easy to shove down, elastic waistbands soft and loose.

George’s pyjama bottoms clung to his arse, revealing a tantalizing curve and leaving everything else to the imagination. Fred wanted to sink his nails into George’s skin, wanted to sink his _teeth_ into George’s skin, to leave marks everywhere so the world knew that he belonged to Fred first and last, but he didn’t. There was a time and a place for everything, and that was neither.

George’s cock felt like Fred’s own, and it was _glorious_. It fit into the palm of his hand perfectly, and he knew exactly what to do to make George whimper. And even amidst all the rucked up clothing and getting tangled in his own shirt, Fred managed to find bare skin at George’s hip, soft and superwarm and perfectly freckled (he wondered if he was freckled the same way).

Then it was just a matter of holding George still with a hand on his arse, and wanking him off while rutting helplessly into that patch of bare freckled skin at his hip. George played his part perfectly, sinking his fingers into Fred’s hair and kissing him, keeping the kiss even when Fred whined and lost rhythm from the sparks of hot pleasure behind his eyelids.

It was messy and complicated and not all that graceful, the way someone’s knees buckled and they landed on the floor. Fred continued anyway. He wouldn’t have been able to stop if it was going to kill him, wouldn’t have been able to stop touching George if he’d been on fire. And when he thought he could take it no longer, George bit his lower lip, and Fred ran a thumb over the head of George’s (perfect) cock, and they came, as in all things, together.

When they’d stopped huffing and panting, sweat cooling rapidly in the cold room, and they’d tucked themselves away, and were lying curled into each other like they’d been their entire lives, George hit him.

“Oi!” Fred protested. “What was that for!?”

“For being an idiot, brother. You could have said something.”

Fred snorted. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey George, you look nice today, and by the way, I’m in love with you’? I bet that’d have gone over well.” He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, really, he hadn’t.

George rolled his eyes and hit him again on his chest, but he gentled the smack with a kiss, and didn’t stop touching him, so Fred forgave him. “You could’ve. Then I’d have said ‘Fred, you prat, we look like each other, and also, I’m in love with you too’?”

“Really?” Fred asked, because it was one thing to want, and to hope, and another thing altogether to have.

George rolled his eyes again. “Yes, we’re identical twins, we look like each other— _of course_ I’m in love with you, _idiot_.”

“Well how was I supposed to know?” Fred asked, even though he knew it was a stupid question. George didn’t grace him with an answer. “Besides, I thought you were out having it off with the stubby ginger wonder.”

George sighed, and even that was somehow affectionate. “Fred, you _are_ a stubby ginger wonder.”

Fred sat up, a wordless sound of outrage on his lips, but he didn’t get a chance to make it before George leaned up and kissed him, soft and sweet, swallowing the choked off howl into his own mouth. There was no talking after that, because Fred literally couldn’t find the words.

George grinned, his eyes twinkling wickedly, and Fred _loved him_. “Well, mum might even be pleased. I’ve finally found a way to shut you up.”

That’s how forever began. With a kiss and a laugh.

There are problems ahead of them, they know. More than they can ever count (Percy was the one who was good at Arithmancy, but this is not a question they will ask him, or anyone else). They will never be able to tell anyone else. No one they know can find out. They cannot kiss each other on the family picnic, and they can’t invite anyone to their home without mocking up a second bedroom, pretending that there is space for two in the apartment when they only ever needed space for one.

They pretend to date other people, who pretend to date them (for their own reasons), but it doesn’t work, because Fred was a jealous boy, and now he is a jealous man, and George has always been sweet(er) than him, and easier to love.

Sometimes they have others join them, just for one night at a time. Others who get a kick out of the attentions of identical twins.

They invite ladies who are willing to look past the fact that even when Fred’s cock is in her vagina, and George’s cock is in her arse, they’re kissing each other. Men who don’t mind letting the brothers fuck him at the same time, two cocks stretching him beyond belief, letting them hold hands while they blow his mind. Others still, who don’t mind that Fred likes to watch when George gets on his knees for someone else. That Fred sometimes likes to open George up for someone else with careful fingers, and lie beneath them while George gets pounded from behind.

They share each other with people who get their names mixed up, or who don’t know their names at all, but who promise to keep their mouths shut, and are always gone when morning comes.

Because that’s the promise they make to each other before they start; that who-ever they bring home will be gone in the morning. They’re not there to stay, and the brothers don’t want anyone else. At the end of the day, it’s just them, and they’re never alone. Two people who live in the same house, and who sometimes live in each other.

Just one single entity – FredandGeorge.

**Author's Note:**

> What. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *shrugs* 
> 
> Otherwise known as: "fucking _damn_ will I never learn? Why can't I ever ease into fandoms the _normal_ way?!"
> 
> The opinions expressed herein do not in any way reflect the author's opinions.


End file.
